Keys and Hearts
by Stephane Richer
Summary: :AU: He knows the band is and should be everything to him right now, but if he had to choose he'd choose four-hand with Midorima forever.


Keys and Hearts

Disclaimer: Don't own

* * *

The apartment is a tiny fraction of a divided townhouse. a fifth-floor walkup with terrible ventilation. The building is beautiful and ornate, with what seems to be the original decorations preserved. Kise knocks on the door to apartment six three times, cautiously. It's got four latches, which might have cost more than several months' rent-what the hell can this guy hide in a place like this? Does he have one of Akashi's expensive shogi sets or something? (Knowing Akashi, he probably does, because he won't touch anything less than the best but he probably won't let someone dirt-poor into his house, either, so that's his idea of middle grounds. However, imagining Akashi in this place doesn't quite fit with Kise's idea of the leader of his band.)

One by one, the latches are unlocked and the door swings inward. Midorima Shintarou is a tall man, significantly taller than Kise, with green hair and scratched-up glasses that are somewhat crooked on his face and slipping down on his nose. He's wearing a neatly-pressed shirt and pants that Kise recognizes as low-end knockoffs of the brands that Akashi wears. He takes his left hand off of the doorknob to push up his glasses, and Kise notices that the ends of his fingers are taped with bandages. This is the right place, right?

Midorima looks about as apprehensive about Kise as Kise is about him. He introduces himself, holds out his right hand. Kise shakes, surprised at the force of Midorima's palm. He enters the hot apartment. The walls are a flat white, the kitchen really just a corner of the main room (really, it's a foyer more than it's a room) where the plaster on the ceiling has come off in ragged chips. An upright piano is pushed against the opposite corner. It looks very well-kept, the black wood shining. The bench is long and cheap-looking, not a match for the piano at all, and the legs on one side are chopped off, and it's propped up on top of a stack of hardcover books. Next to it is a window that's opened to the maximum, not that it does anything to help with the heat.

"Play," Midorima says, gesturing at the piano. Kise sits down; the bench is uncomfortable. He reminds himself that this is under Akashi's orders (he's too scared of Akashi to disobey) and places his hands on the keys and his foot on the pedal, beginning a familiar classical piece that his sister used to play when they were kids. He thinks back to her endless hours, going over and over again, trying to improve and make the tempo more consistent and the dynamics as written. It doesn't sound anything like when she played it at first, because this piano is a different instrument. This piano is a whole fucking different breed of pianos. His parents had had an old Mason and Hamlin grand that they had gotten from his mother's concert pianist uncle who'd died before Kise was born, but even that did not have the richness that this piano does. He adjusts his touch, making his fingers more tentative, placing them farther up the keys and pressing the left pedal. He eases the pressure, but still it's too rich, like chocolate that is unexpectedly 80% cacao instead of 60%. He reaches the end of the piece before he can find that right balance, but he looks up expectantly at Midorima.

He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest (that must be uncomfortable in the heat). "You're going about it all wrong. You're trying to imitate the sound made on some other piano. You can't do that."

Kise raises an eyebrow. He's right, yeah, but Kise finds the way he's speaking in absolutes incredibly annoying. He hasn't even heard Midorima play, so why should he believe what the guy has to say? "You play the piece, then."

"That's not the point," Midorima says. "Akashi informed me that these lessons were for your improvement as a pianist."

"I'm not listening to someone who can't play the piano," Kise fires back.

"Do you not trust Akashi's judgment?" Midorima snaps, pushing up his glasses again.

"Well, he's kind of a psychopath." Kise would never dare say it to Akashi's face, but honestly that guy is more than a little weird.

Midorima pushes his glasses up on his face again, wiping the sweat from the bridge of his nose. "I do not think either you or I have the right to pass judgment on Akashi's mental state. However, all that aside, you cannot deny that he is a sound assessor of musical talent."

Kise shrugs. "Well, whatever. I'm not listening to you until I know you know what you're talking about."

"Fine," says Midorima. He walks over to the bookcase on the opposite wall, so tall it reaches up to the (admittedly low) ceiling. The bottom shelf is full of junk, jars and books and magazines and wires and stuffed animals and dishes and what looks like a lava lamp. The rest of the bookcase is filled with sheet music, books and loose papers and short scores. Kise has no idea how he knows where everything is, but within a few seconds he finds the book he's looking for. He flips through it and carries it over to the piano. Kise slides over on the bench to accommodate him.

Midorima starts playing and at first it seems like nothing out of the ordinary. But Kise looks more closely and sees Midorima's odd, hunched-over posture and the way his eyes are maybe five centimeters from the page, the barely-contained force in his large palms and the way he follows the fingerings that have been carefully penciled in to a T, the softened expression on his face, and he listens more closely and hears the way Midorima gently coaxes out the sound from the instrument, how comfortable he is with the richness, how his hands confidently strike each note.

As soon as he finishes, he's glaring again and the moment is lost. Still, Kise is very impressed. Why is a guy like that living in a dump like this and not playing in concert halls around the country? He's never heard the guy's name before Akashi gave it to him.

Kise moves over, bumping against Midorima, who grumbles something about pushy, impolite students, and settles himself in the middle of the bench. Midorima stands up again as Kise begins. Kise follows the fingerings, trying to get the feel in his fingers of the way Midorima's were spread out against the keys. Somehow, he can't, which is weird because he's good at doing every style of music. Before now, he's been able to mimic anyone's piano playing—definitely Haizaki's, who quit last week and was never good at keeping in tempo anyway (Haizaki quitting was what had made Akashi decide that Kise would now hold piano as well as vocal duties in the band, and that he would need lessons) and definitely the concert pianists of whom he'd seen videos, and all of those pianists from the jazz and rock bands he'd seen live and almost (but not quite) Aomine (but Aomine is such a good guitarist that it makes zero sense for him to switch instruments). But now, with this…he can't come close to Midorima. Shit. He barely makes it through eight measures before Midorima stops him.

"Kise," Midorima says with a sigh, veins in his forehead starting to throb (wow, he has no patience at all). Kise pauses. "Don't imitate."

"But Midorimacchi plays it so well!"

Midorima sniffs. "Flattery will get you nowhere." He cannot, however, hide the reddening of his cheeks. "And what was that you just called me?"

"Midorimacchi. I only use –cchi with people I respect!"

Midorima just frowns harder. "Anyway, your hands are built differently than mine, so in order to achieve maximum efficiency, you have to use a different fingering."

Kise is mesmerized by how flexible and quick Midorima's fingers are, how even though their hands are roughly the same size Midorima has longer fingers and smaller (but firmer) palms, how even with the bandages (what exactly are they for?) he still has a better feel for the piano.

* * *

Midorima loses patience with Kise very quickly, so of course Kise always pushes his buttons. Then, of course, Midorima yells at him for wasting his time so Kise always gets serious after that, and they do accomplish quite a bit. Kise's fingers are becoming a lot defter, and he's just become so much more responsive to the sound of the piano as a whole. He never would have thought that he'd have this much room for improvement, if he does say so himself (he makes the mistake of saying that aloud to Midorima and gets a ten-minute lecture).

They fall into a routine, every other day, same time. Midorima smokes cheap cigarettes, lights them with matchbooks from restaurants and sometimes he chain-smokes because matches are hard to come by and he needs his nicotine fix. He claims that Kise's laziness and ineptitude make him stressed, but he might be joking or he might just want to complain. Midorima can't play by ear, which Kise finds out when he tries something the band's been practicing and tries to get Midorima to play it (he usually can when the music is Midorima's) but Midorima won't because there's no sheet music. He's memorized more than a few pieces, the ones everyone learns and then some, some totally obscure piece by a twentieth-century Czech revolutionary (Midorima knows every composer's biography, can recite them almost at will) or a deep cut from some alternative band's first album that everyone agrees is shit (but not when Midorima plays it; then it's got some kind of new dimension).

Midorima is an enigma, and even though he's broke and unknown and a grumpy jerk Kise likes him a lot. Akashi asks him how lessons are going, and Kise nods and smiles and says that he's learning a lot, and Akashi nods and says that's what he's been expecting.

* * *

It's been a good week and a half since they've started working together when Kise sees Akashi there. He and Midorima are playing shogi on a folding table near the kitchen area that must disappear into the closet or some place (Kise's never seen it before) with, yes, one of Akashi's expensive sets. Akashi leans across the board, eyes glittering, and sends a dismissive wave Kise's way. Midorima makes a move, and Akashi lifts Midorima's kitchen scissors off from the counter and starts cutting his hair, leaving scarlet clippings everywhere on the floor around his folding chair.

And then he makes his final move; Midorima has fallen into his trap. Midorima sighs and bows. "I can't win, can I?"

Akashi gives him a haughty shrug. "I don't lose, Shintarou." He gets up and puts on his jacket, and god it's painful to see the immaculately put together Akashi next to the obviously shabby Midorima, even when Akashi has a few stray hair clippings stuck to his pants. "He's all yours, Ryouta," he says and walks out.

Midorima pushes up his glasses and grabs a chair. Kise is uncertain, so edges over to the other chair to fold it up.

"Kise, please," Midorima says. "Just play."

Kise would protest under normal circumstances, but the pained look on Midorima's face and the secondhand embarrassment he feels prevent this. He sits down and starts to play a Scarlatti sonata from memory, still very aware of Midorima moving the furniture and sweeping the floor behind him until he's almost done with the piece.

They do not speak for the rest of that lesson.

* * *

One day, Kise comes in and Midorima has the top of the piano open and is fussing with the wires. "I'm tuning it," he says, looking up and blinking and—holy damn, he isn't wearing his glasses. They're in his shirt pocket. Of course, they would probably slip off if Midorima were to spend a long period of time bent over. He looks back down, lowers his head and seems to be squinting. But Kise doesn't really register all of this; he's too busy focusing on how beautiful Midorima's eyes are. They're a dark green, framed by long lashes that look like they'd be soft to the touch (Kise suddenly really, really wants to touch them).

"Pay attention, Kise," Midorima says. "You might find this useful."

It may or may not be useful (Kise can always call a professional, after all) but it is interesting. Midorima's hands move differently here than they do on the keys, and Kise is still so taken with those lovely eyes, eyes that can't see so well that they don't appear to notice that Kise's gaze is focused on them. Kise's got good ears, perfect pitch, so he does actually help Midorima out with the way the notes are supposed to sound, but it's automated as the words echo in his ears, his subconscious taking care of it as his conscious mind focuses on the man in front of him, the sweaty nape of his neck as the hair seems swept off of it. Kise wants to kiss that nape, wants to kiss the perpetually pursed, chapped lips.

They finally finish and Midorima sits, beckons Kise to do so as well. And then Kise kisses Midorima before he can put his glasses back on, softly and tenderly and Midorima's elbow goes crashing into the keys, sending a cacophony into the air but he deepens the kiss anyway, piano all but forgotten.

* * *

"Midorimacchi really is great," Kise sighs after a particularly smooth practice.

Aomine sighs. "Kise, will you shut up about that guy? He plays shogi with Akashi, for fuck's sake."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, he kind of has to always lose to Akashi, so he must be a loser."

"Aominecchi, your logic is really dumb."

Aomine smacks him on the back of the head.

* * *

Midorima suggests that they play four hand pieces together because working with a partner is closer to the experience of working with a band than working alone. Kise admits that he's been getting a little out of sync lately, even as his technical performance gets better and smoother. And besides, it's playing music with Midorima. He can't say no.

They've had sex several times, but this is way more intimate. Their hands touch and cross, and they feel the way the other plays music, try to cross the divide between their styles, Kise's a little bit of everything and Midorima's smooth and traditional. It takes them a few tries, but they really start to get going and they can't stop. Kise stays long after the lesson is supposed to be over (not that he hasn't been doing that lately anyway, but it hasn't been to play the piano) and it's dark outside and Kise doesn't care.

He knows the band is and should be everything to him right now, but if he had to choose he'd choose four-hand with Midorima forever. He rests his head on Midorima's shoulder, clutches his arms. He wants these arms, these hands, for his own. Even as they are intimate, Midorima is distant, not fully Kise's. He is fiercely independent, loathes the idea of belonging to someone else, is far too proud. Kise wonders if Midorima wants to possess him, to have all of him, but it's impossible to approach the subject with him because he's always so, so cagey about this sort of thing. So Kise leans in and closes his eyes and wishes for the courage to do something and Midorima strokes his hair and does not say anything.

* * *

Midorima's glasses are old, the wrong prescription by now, clearly, what with the way he leans his face so close to the sheet music when he's reading a piece or the newspaper when Kise brings it over with him in the mornings. He needs something stronger, and he needs lenses that aren't so scratched up, and frames that are not bent and that sit squarely on his face, a pair with real nose pads (the pad arms are strangely bare, as Kise sees when the glasses lie next to the futon in the tiny bedroom on the floor (there is no table), and this is the reason they are perpetually slipping down on his face) so Kise has a pair custom-made (he can afford them, after all, what with the band's success; even though it's been almost a year since the release their last album is still steadily selling (they're not even touring!)) at his local optician, with some guesswork about the prescription (they promise that they'll switch them for a discount if it's not right).

And Kise holds them out, tells them that he noticed that Midorima's glasses were not in the best condition, that he wanted to get him a gift, and then Midorima reaches up toward his face and pushes up the old glasses while a cigarette burns in his hand, and then brings his hand toward Kise.

Midorima slaps Kise on the side of the face, hard, the ends of the bandages sharp and stiff and scratching his forehead in the aftermath, the still-lit cigarette singeing his eyebrow. "I don't need your charity."

Kise cannot think of how to respond. Midorima is breathing hard, trembling with anger, squeezing the cigarette in his fingers.

"If this is just pity, I want no part of it. I don't need anyone's goddamn help, least of all yours." He pauses, grits his teeth, face contorting. "Get out." This last sentence is half-hissed, and he lunges at Kise wildly as if to shove him through the door. Kise stumbles backward, and before he realizes he's in the hallway and the door slams shut in front of him. All five latches are locked.

He waits, and nothing happens. He cannot even hear anything through the thin walls. He knocks on the door, but there is no answer. Midorima doesn't even yell at him to go the fuck away.

* * *

Kise places the glasses on his nightstand, but seeing them the next morning when he wakes up is too painful (even when they're in the case he knows exactly what's in them, what they signify). The glasses place won't take them back because they were custom-made, so he donates them to a thrift shop. They weigh on his mind; all of the events that have just transpired weigh on his mind. He shows up to band practice and Akashi asks if he's done with his lessons yet (that guy always asks questions when he knows the answer perfectly well).

"Midorimacchi taught me everything I needed," Kise says softly. .

"Good," Aomine says. "Maybe you'll stop rambling on about him all the damn time."

"Well?" says Akashi, completely ignoring Aomine. "Play, Ryouta."

He does, starting up with one of their old songs, the one Haizaki always started with in practice. He doesn't want to feel this piano under his fingers, wants the smooth ivory of Midorima's piano, Midorima next to him on the bench, the wooden slats instead of the black plush. He doesn't even attempt to really imitate Haizaki, puts his own spin on the old folk song, plays it the way he thinks Midorima would, clean and straightforward, something that he feels confident singing along with. He can feel the way his voice cuts through the room, through the instrumentals, his own piano and Aomine's guitar and Murasakibara's drums and even Akashi's bass.

They continue, working through their repertoire. Eventually, Akashi stops them.

"Acceptable, Ryouta."

Of course it is; he's playing like Midorima, the man who expects nothing short of perfection from everyone, especially himself, to whom everything and everyone falls woefully short of expectations.

* * *

Kise tunes and retunes his piano, but something is off. He strikes the keys, channels Midorima, drudges up every memory and lets it lash out at him—this self-loathing is very Midorima-esque, he thinks, smiling wryly as he lets it take over, lets himself stew in negativity and regret and pride—he's proud of the way he isn't breaking down in public, is staying stoic and pretending nothing ever happened and that there was no lover in his life, pretending that Midorima meant (means) next to nothing. It's hard; it's so hard. The world is uninviting, no longer bright and full of possibilities.

He cannot think; thinking is too dangerous. He lets the piano consume him, plays the hardest pieces he can find, immerses himself in them. Every morning he goes to the music store and buys two new books; the cashier knows him there already and has started to give him some kind of loyalty discount. He passes by the convenience store and a lost-looking young woman is smoking the same cheap cigarettes that now smell so sweet in their staleness that he goes in and buys a pack, lights them one by one like incense so that the smell can overtake him as he plays. He doesn't give a shit if he dies of lung cancer when he's 35 because of the secondhand smoke, because it doesn't matter if he's alone and if the pain goes away soon the damage will be negligible. He knows he has to move on, but he can't right now. He wants the air to be bitter, as bitter as he is as he slams his foot on the pedal and then lets it up again.

* * *

Midorima shows up at one of their shows. He meets them outside; he's nominally there for Akashi, on Akashi's orders. He gives feedback that no one listens to—Akashi doesn't need anything because he never really takes anyone else's opinion into account; Aomine doesn't give a shit; Murasakibara is just going to do his own thing. Kise is the last one he turns to. Under the streetlights, his scratched glasses shine and Kise cannot see the emerald eyes that he knows are underneath.

"Kise," he says. It's drawn out, just slightly, full of longing, and Midorima takes an extra-long drag on his cigarette to give him time to formulate the rest of what he's going to say. Aomine and Murasakibara have gone ahead, dragging Akashi with them. Akashi waves a dismissal to Kise and Midorima.

"You've been practicing. You're much more comfortable and assertive; you're becoming a real pianist." He takes another drag.

Kise steps closer. "Midorimacchi, please. Cut the crap. I'm sorry, okay?" And he leans up, pressing his lips to Midorima's, lets cheap smoke fill his mouth.

Midorima pulls away, but he's still so close that Kise can see his green eyes are wide behind the scratched lenses. "What are you doing to me?" he rasps, breathing hard.

"I'm in love with you," Kise says. "And—"

And Midorima kisses him back, hard and hungry before Kise can ask for forgiveness again.


End file.
